This was published 2 years ago
‘I was taken aback by what he told me’: how two very different men became mates
By Robyn Doreian
Filmmaker Ryan Gaskett, 38, is a quiet family man. Ten years ago, he met Leigh Conkie, 56, a chain-smoking chainsaw sculptor from Eltham who took drugs to dull the pain of childhood trauma. An unlikely friendship developed.
Leigh Conkie, left, and Ryan Gaskett: “Leigh just seems to find the good in everyone. His openness has been so good for me and my family.”Credit: Eddie Jim
Leigh: When I met Ryan in 2012, I was at the height of my sculpting work. I was getting a lot of orders, mainly from bikies who wanted carvings of Ned Kelly. I taught myself how to carve at 24 after I saw figures by Gippsland wood artist John Brady. I’m not a patient man and loved the speed at which you can work using a chainsaw.
I can look pretty intimidating and I could tell he was a bit daunted. I told him how, when I was 14, I accidentally shot my 12-year-old brother, Ross, in the testicles with an air rifle. I don’t know if that put him at his ease, but he did laugh. We got to talking about family, about his hopes and dreams for his kids, and I could see he was someone I could trust. I agreed to be the subject of a documentary he wanted to make [Leigh is showing at Montsalvat, Melbourne, June 24-25, and in the Melbourne Documentary Film Festival on July 30].
In 2014, I decided to climb Mount Fuji. Even though I smoked 40 cigarettes a day and could barely walk 200 metres, I wanted a challenge. Ryan, who was coming too, encouraged me to stop drinking. He exercised with me, and I lived on vegetable smoothies made with tap water.
He attached a wireless microphone to me on the climb, but I wasn’t able to do much talking at the end, just a lot of heavy breathing. I moved slowly, but he was always very patient with me, even though he was carrying heavy camera gear. One night we had to share a double bed; Ryan built this wall of bags between us. It was pretty funny.
“We got to talking about family, about his hopes and dreams for his kids, and I could see he was someone I could trust.”
In 2016, I teamed up with a couple of schoolmates to bring our primary-school principal to justice. We were very young when he started molesting us. Talking about it with Ryan years later, remembering different details in each retelling, finally helped me get it off my chest. I’d never even told my parents. Seeing [Paul James Bussey] in court in 2017, he looked different to how I remembered. He was 70 and frail. One side of me wanted to forgive him, the other to hurt him. He got three years.
At the end of 2019, I had to have a quadruple bypass. There were complications and I went into cardiac arrest. I was unconscious for a time in Austin Hospital [in Heidelberg]. Even though I couldn’t open my eyes, I was aware of Ryan and his wife, Ellen, a nurse – she’s a truckload of honey – in the room. She was stroking me; I heard Ryan say they loved me. It was one of the best Christmases I’ve ever had.
Less than a year earlier, my big brother Wayne had died. Pancreatic cancer. He was the one who kept the house in order, did the washing and cooking. I went downhill – smoking and drinking too much, not taking care of myself. Ryan had made a film of our Japanese trip and we watched it with Wayne a week before he died. We all had a laugh, mostly at my expense. I wouldn’t branch out food-wise while we were there: every morning, we’d go to a Western restaurant so that I could eat a sandwich.
Ryan made the slide show for Wayne’s funeral and filmed the service. I don’t know what to say about him other than his friendship means everything to me. He’s given me a family. His family is now my family.
Ryan: I was 28 when I first met Leigh. I was studying filmmaking, and my best friend from high school told me about this chainsaw artist who lived across the road from him. Leigh is a formidable presence, 193 centimetres, but he offered me a beer straight away. He told me about the time he’d owed money to a drug dealer and had to agree to dress up as a clown at her kid’s birthday party in lieu of payment. He’s a born storyteller.
I was fascinated by his house, which is like this weird, artistic wonderland. He’s carved a huge face into the trunk of a gum tree in his front yard. A wooden bridge, with ornate, twisted columns that he’s also carved, traverses a creek. There’s a spiritual quality to his work.
The following week, we talked for over an hour. I could see he was nervous, so we took breaks. He told me he’d been abused by a teacher when he was seven and how afterwards, when he went to the toilet and wiped himself, there was blood. In his teens, he’d punch himself in the head to try to forget. I was taken aback by what he told me, but also struck by the story he had to tell, by its darkness, but also its light.
Leigh’s a charismatic guy. In Japan, he’d suddenly stop and pretend to be doing a commercial for some obscure food item or other. People would stop and watch. He did one for [the canned drink] Pocari Sweat as we were climbing Mount Fuji and he was just hilarious. He’s an in-the-moment guy; I’d just let the camera roll. A lot of our best material was captured completely on the fly.
Leigh’s heart attack was a direct result of Wayne’s death. The first time we visited him, he was unconscious. The next time, he was awake, but intubated. Ellen kissed him on the cheek and when I bent down, I missed and accidentally kissed him on the nose. He enjoyed that.
Afterwards, his meds caused him to become “heightened”. He’d phone and whisper that his house was going to be bombed in an airstrike. He spent five weeks in a psych unit. I was scared that the Leigh we knew was gone forever, but when he started to crack jokes about his time on the ward, I knew he was coming back.
“You go to his house and there’ll be someone there who’s just got out of prison, or a throat singer, or a carving apprentice.”
During the lockdowns, he joined our bubble. Every second day, he’d swing by for breakfast and I’d cook him two pieces of toast with lettuce and fried eggs on top. Then he’d just hang or talk to Ellen about relationships. He’s always telling me how lucky I am to have her.
My kids – Ava, 17, William, 15, and Lucy, who’s nine – love Leigh. He shows them that it’s okay to accept all kinds of people – and experiences. You go to his house and there’ll be someone there who’s just got out of prison, or a throat singer, or a carving apprentice. He just seems to find the good in everyone. His openness has been so good for me and my family.
Leigh is showing at Montsalvat, Melbourne, June 24-25, and in the Melbourne Documentary Film Festival on July 30.
Lifeline 13 11 14.
To read more from Good Weekend magazine, visit our page at The Sydney Morning Herald, The Age and Brisbane Times.
The best of Good Weekend delivered to your inbox every Saturday morning. Sign up here.